


and you will become

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Gift Fic, Hair Braiding, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 04:16:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13872936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Damian asks his father for a little help.





	and you will become

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jessica_not_Jones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessica_not_Jones/gifts).



> For Jessica_not_Jones, whose birthday is today! Happy birthday. Sorry this is late--I took a surprise detour to the ICU and didn't know if this was going to be posted.

Damian put down the comb, clicking his tongue.

In the mirror, the matted curls were still tangled. The brushing had done nothing but intensify the problem. He tried to run a hand through the left side, sighing as his fingers were trapped between the strands.

 _Maybe Todd was right,_ he thought, reaching for the comb again, then stopping himself. _It would be easier if I shaved it all off._

He couldn’t explain why he’d let it grow out for this long. Deep down, he suspected it had something to do with the freedom of being in Father’s house.

There was no pointed stare from Mother when his hair grew beneath his ears--no threat of the dull razor they’d used on him as a child, when he hadn’t understood that a fistful of hair could mean the end of a fight.

 _This is more than a fistful,_ Damian thought, glaring at the clumps in the mirror. _Mother never had to deal with this. Did she?_

Mother’s hair had been sleek, a dark black that matched his own. Never curled or wavy, unless it’d been braided. She’d worn elaborate braids into battle often, the strands woven into each other until her hair was an endless knot.

Damian sighed, grabbing the rubber band from his wrist. Grayson had given it to him a month back, along with a quick lesson on ponytails.

 _If only he was home right now,_ he thought, wrapping the elastic around his hair. He winced as the tangled mess was pulled into a ponytail, well-aware it looked ridiculous. His ponytails had been sub-par at best, despite Grayson’s instruction.

He grabbed the doorknob, pulling open the bathroom door with more force than necessary. Comb and brush in hand, he stomped down the hallway, stopping in front of the last door.

“Father.”

The other man looked up from his desk, startled. When he saw Damian, the expression morphed into a small smile. Given his situation it was infuriating. “Damian.”

“I require assistance.” He said, holding out the brush and comb. Through gritted teeth, he added: “Please.”

Father was frozen, glancing between the brush and his hair. Damian held his breath, waiting for the dismissal.

Finally, he stood, gesturing him over to the leather couch in the corner.

“Lay down against the armrest.”

Damian set the comb and brush on the glass coffee table, quickly climbing across the couch. The leather was cool against his neck and scalp. He relaxed into it, startling as Father’s hands drifted across his hair.

“You really tangled yourself up,” Father murmured, pulling the elastic from his hair gently. “Tell me you at least used water.”

“Water?” Damian asked, craning his head. “Why would I use water?”

There was the soft huff of Father’s laugh, and then his hands were in Damian’s hair again. He pulled apart the tangled ends, reaching for the comb.

“You can’t brush out curly hair like this,” Father said, humming as he began brushing through the knots at the bottom. “My mother taught me that. She had the worst time getting her hair ready in the mornings.”

Damian felt his chest freeze, going still against the leather. Father continued to comb at the tangles, unbothered by the silence.

“Your mother had curly hair?”

Father chuckled, pulling at a particularly stubborn knot. Damian resisted the urge to wince. “Yes. She was always fighting it. Straightening and pinning for hours. Father— _my_ father—always laughed at her.”

“Laughed at her?”

“He thought she was lovely no matter what.” Father said, sounding distant. His hands stilled in Damian’s hair. “He always joked about how long she spent in the bathroom in the mornings. He said she didn’t need a second in there to be beautiful.”

Damian swallowed, willing the knot in his throat to disappear. Father huffed another laugh, the moment passing. He began untangling again, hands moving farther up Damian’s hair.

“You have to start with the bottom,” Father instructed, “Get your comb wet, and brush at the ends until they’re soft. Then keep moving upwards. You can’t start at the top, or it’ll become a rat’s nest.”

“Good to know,” Damian said, in lieu of a thank-you. “I— _ow._ ”

“Sorry,” Father said, smoothing his hands against his scalp. “You just have a lot of—“

“ _Ow_!”

“Shhh, I got it.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice. “You’re fine, Damian. Stop squirming.”

He flinched slightly, unable to hold back the reaction as Father’s hand braced his neck gently. “Sorry.”

“Oh, Damian, I didn’t—“ Father cut himself off, sounding distressed. “If you squirm, I might hurt you.”

Damian stilled, relaxing. Hesitant hands carded through his hair, sliding from his scalp to the ends. He let out a sigh of relief, his eyes closing.

“There we go.” Father set the comb aside. His hands returned to Damian’s hair, slipping through the strands. “Let me see if I remember how to do this.”

Damian _hmmm_ ed, luxuriating in the feeling of fingers against his scalp. Father continued to pull at his hair, breathing quietly above him.

In the distance, he could hear pots clanging together—Pennyworth making dinner, perhaps.

“Done.” Father said, breaking the silence. “Go take a look in the mirror.”

Damian pushed up from the couch, blinking against the light from the study’s window. He padded over to the mirror on the wall, curious.

“French braids?” he asked, surprised.

“They look nice,” Father said, looking away. He smiled at the window, the sunset streaking his face. “Like Talia used to wear.”

Damian felt his face flush, putting a hand to his head. The braids slipped between his fingers, smooth and tight against his scalp.

“It looks nice long,” Father said, behind him. He snorted. “I’m pretty sure I have a picture of me in the 80’s with hair the same length.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” Father said, ducking his head. “I went through a _phase._ Alfred refuses to let me forget it, either.”

“I’d like to see it.”

Father blinked. “The photos?”

“Yes.” Damian smiled, his hand dropping from the braid. “Please?”

Father’s smile stretched, finally reaching his eyes. He grabbed Damian’s shoulder, pulling him into a half-hug.

“Let’s go look for them, then.”

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Leave me a comment, and let me know what you thought :)


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